


my love has come

by empires



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 20:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17689973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empires/pseuds/empires
Summary: Your skin was gilded with the gold of the richest kingsAnd like the dawn you woke the world inside of meYou were the brightest shade of sun when I saw you - the oh hellos





	my love has come

**Author's Note:**

> I have returned to the decaying mines of tumblr, may the blue never reach you, to bring back one more ancient tumblr fic! Totally missed the request mark with this one, (mainly because I tend to do that a lot when I don't look at reference materials), but you know. Wing fic was achieved. And some of the world building is ok?
> 
> Special thanks to the anon who asked me about this story. I honestly forgot I even wrote it xD. I had idea seeds for some of the more oblique hooks, but without a good rewrite.... IDK.
> 
> While this story takes place in some fantastic universe and deals with religion, it is not a religious fic. i did pull a lot of biblical imagery and (indirect) scripture because angels.

In the farthest reaches of the highest mountains, in hallowed eyries of black stone and fire, the angles stand guard, may they stand forever in the light. The prophets have foreseen a day in which the creator returns to their world, and so the angels strive to maintain the harmony of the creator’s works.

At the end of the summer season, in the month of leonartes, when the world is lazy with indolent ocean winds, the angels come to the city to receive their glory, a reward for vigilance and steadfastness in the face of endless uncertainty.

They come to the city to find their mortal love.

 

* * *

 

Five years ago, an angel found the other half of his soul beating in Jason’s breast. They were one of several trothed to share love, undying and unhindered, a gift from the creator. Five years ago, Jason was a child. He looked into the face of the angel, near blinded by holy light, and knew that his time in this world would rapidly dwindle in a slow count of days.

Forever, he could not comprehend it. Eternal joy, he could not know it. Love. What does a child know about love?

 

* * *

 

On the first sunrise of leonartes, Jason wakes with morning light lapping across his brow. A coil of feeling leaks through his body like an unsure rivulet on the fields pouring forward without direction. He wakes with the knowledge that soon the angels will return.

On the second sunrise of the leonartes, the city sweeps the dust from stone floors. They polish their finest gems, their hammered golds and silvers until they shine in the late summer sun. They beat tapestries along the cliff side. They spool spider silk from their temple’s darkened corners. And they soak soft rags and wipe the city’s glassworks in the white lighthouses that blazon the rocky coats to the hillside manors of their petty princes, with their gardens of white flower and blooming vines.

Jason is one of the many youths who fetch the water for the cleaning. Sweat drips across his brow and his neck slickening the cedar yoke hung across his wide shoulders. He climbs the stone steps rising from the canals two at a time, eager to work the anxious tension from his body. The water sloshes in the heavy clay pots, but he makes it to the plaza central to his vincinia without spilling a drop. There he deposits the water in the great cistern for the old mothers’ use. He cannot help but feel pride in this feat for he must traverse a multitude of neighboring vincinia to reach the canal then climb the terraced roadways winding up to the plateau of stacked buildings, the poor quarters where his family lives. But even the poorest live like lords in Evimeria, or so the saying goes.

When he is done, Jason joins his father and the other men haul heavy ropes to the plaza center to hang. The ropes are woven with flowers, bells and streaming fabrics and tied around the temple’s tallest column and spread out across the way reminding the people of the revelries to follow, once the angels come. They toil under an unforgiving sun until the city is clean and dressed in its finery appeasing the angels, showing they remain worth of protection.

On the third sunrise of the leonartes, the city lights the welcome fires, burning a large packet of lemon peels, cedar, and sweet grasses to cleanse the taint of mortal weakness from the air. The smell lingers throughout the day. Each night, the watchmen light another bundle until the smoky sweetness cloys the air.

Jason’s mother wakes him before the fifth sunrise. She binds his eyes, placing the softest cotton across his lids then wraps a dark cloth round and around until the world becomes nothing but sound, smell, touch. She hides his lagoon water eyes because he can see the unseen and that is a sin equal to mortal weakness in the gospel of angels.

His mother helps Jason dress holding the pale robes open for him and wraps the band to wrap around his waist. She stoops to help place Jason’s sandals on his feet and uses oils and pomade to shape his hair and face. She clutches Jason to her before they leave the room and he wonders if sorrow has replaced the sadness that lined her beautiful face when he first saw her this morning. He holders her close, a childish wish to be small in her arms again.

“He might find me lacking again,” Jason says, with a heavy laugh. “It has been five years since he came with the others. Perhaps it will be five more.”

“No. No. He will take one look at you and know you are ready. Your soul has always been strong, even the priests say so. You must be ready, Jason.” The distance between them has grown. Her son is so much taller now. “I would not have you extinguish your fire,” she says. “But it would be best if you remember that flames do not have to burn.”

His mother speaks of the last time Jason sat with his intended and the horrible argument that sprung between them. It has been five years, but Jason squirms awkwardly at the remembrance.

“I will be a warm light that shines,” he grumbles then smiles with all the happiness he does not feel. “Mother, I am ready.”

She sighs, wistfully. “So you say.”

Together Jason and his family climb to the grand temple that sits overlooking the city. They have a place of honor among the other soulmates who kneel on the stone floor below the temple alter. They sit before the free men and women that protect the city from dangers of a jealous world. They sit elevated above the city’s patrons, the elite class with their riches and villas, their ancestral homes along the archipelago. They sit as an offering to the angels; a fact Jason will never forget.

Spared as he was, Jason did wish that he could see the arrival if only to know for certain that his angel has returned.

Soon the music stops, the voices dies, and the people look to the horizon.

The angels arrive when the sun’s first rays peal across the morning sky. Jason remembers the moment clearly from five years ago, the proud majesty of a warrior host that arrived on chariots of gold and blue fire heralded by the impossible beauty of voices that once shaped the song of making. They arrive in a proclamation of their worth, the sound of elemental fury, storms and joy, the lyrics are a remembrance of quaking earth and the colorful banner of the creator’s promise, peace and love.

Above all things there is love.

Today, he can only feel the heat of their flaming mounts as they land in the stone courtyard and listen to the jangled metal of their armor and bridles and swords jangle together in a deadly complement to their song. The sight of their wings sends a low cry from those people who had yet to witness the glory of angels. And still more people cry out when the song ends and the angels speak, addressing the temple priests and then the mortals that congregated to their feet to bear witness. And then the angels stepped down to the floor. At once, Jason felt as if the world opened before him as if he had been sleeping but is now awake. He looks up and feels it as sure as he feels the power of life spreading about him. The shared soul within him moves.

“Rise,” says the angel, in a voice that peals like the setting sun. “I am here.”

Jason stands, trembling at the angel’s touch.

 

* * *

 

 

The gardens of the grand temple are a wonder of the city. The green expanse wanders down the terraced cliff face, some parts sculpted by stone paths and statues, other run wild with flowers and trees. The gardens boast flora from neighboring kingdoms, from deserted lands, enemy and friend alike. Jason sees none of the greenery or the blooming sights aware of the play of shadow and sun against his skin and the warmth radiating from the angel beside them, the brush of wings against his bare arms.

He walks with the angel as they tour the grounds together, time to learn about each other the angel had said, but neither has spoken since they entered, and Jason cannot see. It is a singularly frustrating experience.

Finally, the angel guides Jason to a stone bench beneath a shaded tree and invites him to sit. It is still well within the cool of morning but Jason sweats like it is midday and his feet feel the graveled paths keenly. He sits quietly grateful.

“Jason,” the angel says, quietly coming to stand before. “Do you remember me?”

Jason keeps his expression closed though he wants to frown at the angel and tell him that’s not how to say his name. He wants to say it is Jason, Jay like the bird for which his father was named and not the strange eliding of sounds the angels used—E-A-Son.

“I do remember you, Richard, an angel of victory, Gray Son of the heavenly host.”

“Good. Good.” Richard says, although he does not sound pleased. Behind the cotton and cloth, Jason’s eyes narrow.

“It would be terrible to think I could forget my soulmate so easily,” he says, thinking of the times that he tried. Oh, how he tried to forget the angel’s tawny skin and the angry light in his eyes. The way his peel of laughter soothed away all his fears. “Or did you question your remembrance of me?”

“No,” says Richard. “But you look quite different. At first, I did not think it was you as we stood before the altar. I thought perhaps…. And then I could not see your eyes.”

“It has been five years,” Jason says wryly. “We mortals do change between the seasons.”

“Yes. Yes.” Richard repeats, a smile in his voice. “You were quite small then, but at last I see something to recognize, Jason. Your ire.”

“Do not. You.” Jason stops and swallows down his protest. “I am no longer a child to throw childish tantrums.”

“I do not wish to embarrass you.”

“I’m not embarrassed!” Jason protests, loudly feeling a flush creep down his cheeks. He balls his hands on his knees then flattens them when the urge to yell is extinguished. He will be a warm light. “But I suppose now would be a good time to apologize to you. When we last spoke, my behavior was a poor reflection of me. I hope.” Jason exhales quickly. “I hope you have found the grace to forgive my foolish youth in these past five years.”

A pause and after a moment, the angel’s voice comes closer than before. “You did nothing that needs my forgiveness. And my pride has recovered remarkably since then.”

“Are you sure?” Jason tilts his head towards the angel as if to search his face. “It has been five years since you came to Evimeria.”

“Oh,” says Richard, voice soft. His wings rustle, unfurling only to sweep up around them bringing the dark scent of rain to crowd them. “The only thing that stands between us is time and duty. It is the only reason I could not come.”

“Of course,” says Jason, bitter to hear such a lie.

“You do not believe me,” Richard says, chorused by creaking leather. He must be gripping something tightly. His belt perhaps, his sword. The sound is magnified in the cocoon they share.

“It is a great thing to believe,” Jason says, unable to hide the accusation in his voice. “Or to even understand. The motivation of the divine.”

“You will one day,” Richard says, swiftly, knowingly.

Jason scoffs. “If you like.”

“It displeases me that you think.” Richard stops the sentence, and Jason hopes it is because he can feel the anger building within him, stoked by a lie and those six imperious words. “I know that it is your wish to follow the traditions of your family, but I would very much like to see your eyes.”

“I am sorry, but this is the tradition of our city,” Jason says stiffly, aware that he too works within a lie and his anger doubles. His dishonesty is to hide the taint within them, to appease the heavenly host that their victorious angel will experience the love of the creator anew. Could Richard’s excuse be as important? It is all confusing and that too stokes his anger.

“I understand, but if you could see me, perhaps you would also see my sincerity. I would not lie to you, Jason, about this or any other thing.”

“We should speak of something else,” Jason snaps.

“Alright,” Richard says, carefully as if to gentle him. “I will offer an apology in kind. I ask only because I remembered your eyes most of all. They were like of the shallow waters that lap your hidden shore. I remember them to be beautiful, deeper than I have ever known.” Richard’s voice trails away as if he now mused on their color. Jason can no longer feel Richard’s gaze on him, and he is glad for those soft-spoken words sends a rush of feeling through him.

Weakened by the angel’s charm, the small anger in Jason’s chest unwinds exposing the deepest root of all, a spike of fear. The angel’s words seem genuine, but underneath could reside a tender trap. Yet with his eyes bound, he cannot see into the angel and cannot see the truth of his soul. It is an unkind paradox.

“I am in no position to go against the wishes of my family,” says Jason. “You should not ask me to do so.”

A pause. The faint rustle of wings folding back. “You are right. I have no cause to ask such a thing nor place you in such a position,” Richard says, sounding contrite.

Jason does not like the sound. “We’ll see each other soon enough. And isn’t patience a virtue?”

“Yes,” Richard says laughing, a quicksilver sound harkening cheer. “But it is no virtue of mine.”

Jason remembers the sound, ringing deep as morning bells, dreamed the sound, yet he refuses to smile. No response comes to Jason, so he does not speak choosing to let the silence grow between them. They sit beside one another in the temple gardens and listen to the mellow woodiness of the wind chimes and the low drone of bees dancing from flower to flower.

“I brought you a gift,” Richard says suddenly. “I have thought long on it one in the hopes that you will enjoy this one.”

Jason, to his deep embarrassment, blushes. He had been but a boy then, only twelve years old, but he can still hear the jeering laughter in his voice as he mocked the angel’s gift. “I’m sure I will. I. Richard,” he says, faltering. “Thank you.”

“Thank me once you have truly experienced it.” Richard places the gift in his hand. It is the size of a grapefruit, small and metal with faint lines etched into the surface. Jason rolls it between his palms. His curiosity is chased by confusion.

“It is too heavy to be a battle ball.”

“You would win quite hardily if that were used in such a game,” Richard says, laughing again. “But it is not a battle ball. It is an ephemeralinae.”

“I do not know what that is,” Jason admits, voice quiet.

“It is divine craft so that does not surprise me.” Richard’s fingers sweep over his and together they turn the ball over and over until Jason can feel a deep slashing x at its center. “You press here and it will show you many places where I have felt the creator’s hand.”

Jason frowns, uncomprehending. “How can I see them? How do they fit in the ball?”

“They are memories from these five long years. Like smoke, the coil down tight to fit. And they shine in the air much like your city’s famous frescos.” Richard explains, but Jason cannot envision such a thing. He shakes his head denying the idea, and beside him, Richard laughs a third time, sadly. “You do not believe me in this either.”

“I wish to see it,” Jason says.

“I know. I wished to share such a thing with you now.” Richard’s breath skates over Jason’s shoulder in a sigh that is cold and dry. “That is twice I have failed to bring a gift to please you.”

“It is not a bad gift.” In fact, it would be quite a good gift, if only. If only. Jason brings the ephermalinae to rest against his belly.

“Perhaps you would like to touch me? My wings,” Richard says quickly before Jason can utter another refusal. Jason bites the tip of his tongue trying to school to squelch his curiosity, but Richard must see it in his face for he adds. “Please. I would that you came to know some part of me better.”

“It would be fair,” Jason murmurs.

“For you to use touch to see me after all this time. Yes. It would be fair,” Richard says.

Jason raises his hand. “I accept.”

There’s the gentle displacement of air as the wings extend again. Jason flexes his fingers, hoping to hide the tremble there. If he noticed, Richard makes no comment. Jason starts high, touch light with a single finger running along the neat line of feathers.

They are down near the center then fan into a solid wave of edges that feel jagged against his fingertips but also soft, heather and cotton and the night breeze. Jason can smell those things as Richard’s wings rustle gently, along with the sharp tang of rain. He concentrates on a single ring close to the ridge of bone radiating above the shoulder. He strokes it with his fingers, his thumb sliding up the shaft and then down to soothe it. Richard’s wings had been beautiful, black along the contoured edges, a fledgling brown below, and within each feather shone a spot of pearlescent blue like the sea, like Richard’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Jason says, pulling away, but Richard stops him.

“You do not need to stop,” Richard says, placing Jason’s hand back on his wings. “I see so much of you right now. I would have you know more of me. Please.”

So, Jason continues to touch the wings, searching for the smallest imperfections with his palms and smoothing the ruffled edges with his fingers. And if Richard makes the odd sound, small and yearning like an unfinished song, Jason does not comment. He feels Richard’s eyes upon him, their thirst, and perhaps he can believe Richard did wish to see him sometime over the past five years. Perhaps he even dreamed of them together soaring as Jason did.

His hand wanders up from the warm thrum of wings, tracing the bone to the angel’s shoulder and from there, Jason charts an upward path along the bare skin tracing the strong line of Richards jaw to his sharp cheeks. The narrow point of his nose, the sweet shape of his chin. Jason touches the angel’s mouth and it is good, full and soft. He carefully runs his thumb along the length of Richard’s lashes, the bridge of his nose, his noble brow. It has been five years, but Jason can remember, sees Richard vividly within his mind’s eye. He cards fingers through the heavy weight of Richard’s hair and recalls the shine in the ebon waves, how its shadows brought out the bewitching blue in his eyes. Then Richard does a queer thing. Folding Jason’s fingers around his hand, he brings them to the crown of his head then forces them out until they press against the point of Jason’s nose.

“You have grown so _tall_ ,” Richard says, sounding bewildered, frustrated even, so unlike one of the heavenly host.

For the first time in five years, Jason can feel his spirits rise and there in the garden with Richard beside him, he laughs.


End file.
